


Take My Hurting Heart (Away From Me)

by aishitara



Series: Carrying On [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: 15x18 coda, 15x18 fix-it, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Basically I Had To Write This, Canon Compliant through 15x18, Canonical Defeat of Chuck, Dean Giving Voice to His Feelings, Dean Winchester Loves Castiel, Dean Winchester is in love with Castiel, Episode 15x20 basically doesn't exist, Fix-it fic, Fluff, Jack is God, M/M, My Brain Would Not Let Me Work On Anything Else, Post-series fix-it, Rated M for language, Sam Ships It, Temporary Canonical MCD, There is a Greenhouse in the Bunker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:01:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27839539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aishitara/pseuds/aishitara
Summary: “You sure this is gonna work, Sammy?” he asks, hoping his brother doesn’t notice the tremor in his voice. Insane. They’d just taken the worst beating of their lives, defeatedGod, for chrissake, but Dean couldn’t shake the gnawing fear in his stomach that somehow this was all gonna go sideways, and fast.Sam gave him a wry look. “As sure as I ever am about anything,” he answers, grinding a pestle into their old stone mortar like it had harmed him personally. His hair falls in his face as he works, obscuring his expression, but Dean can hear the tightness in his brother’s voice. Good to know they’re both freaking out, then.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: Carrying On [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2188737
Comments: 28
Kudos: 216





	Take My Hurting Heart (Away From Me)

**Author's Note:**

> So it turns out, my brain wouldn't let me write any sweet fluffy timestamps for _Dragon in the Cup_ until I had banged this out and threw my hat in the ring to add to the plethora of 15x18 fix-it fics.
> 
> This actually took fewer drafts than any of the other things I've written thus far and I honestly think it's because these two idiots _write themselves_ and they wanted a much nicer ending than the one they got. I'm merely the vessel here, lol.
> 
> An enormous, huge, delicious hug goes out to [LaughingStones](https://archiveofourown.org/users/laughingstones) for their incredible writing help, on this piece but also in general. Without their valuable advice this story would be significantly less polished. And they are not even a part of spn fandom, but said _gimme_ to this story because, and I quote, "I don't even watch the show and I still need it fixed." ^.^;
> 
> Many thanks to both [K_A_Mindin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/K_A_Mindin/pseuds/K_A_Mindin) and [mrhd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrhd) for their very thorough beta-ing. They caught so many tense slip-ups (present tense is hard, yo)! Any mistakes left are 100% my fault.
> 
> And finally, of course, the biggest hug and thanks to [conversationalpurgatory](https://archiveofourown.org/users/conversationalpurgatory), my wonderful alpha, beta, cheerleader, muse, and friend. She keeps me focused and lends me her sunshine energy whenever I'm being attacked by the I-Can't-Write-Worth-A-Damn monsters. Big love, darlin'! ::blows a kiss::

_Bzzzzzzzt._

_Bzzzzzzzt._

_Bzzzzzzzt._

  
The buzzing of his phone against cold concrete is a distant hum in Dean’s ears. He doesn’t know how long it’s been ringing. He’s lost count, if he ever had it, of how many times Sam has tried to call. He just–

 _I love you_ , Cas had said.  
  
He’d said it like – like it was _easy_. Like it freed him from an unbelievably heavy burden. And for one infinitesimal moment, Dean felt like it could free him, too.  
  
But then – but _then._  
  
Everything had happened so fast. It had happened so damn fast Dean is _still_ trying to piece it together, sort through the tangled mess in his mind. He’s aware of a few physical sensations: his hands, gripping his hair so tight it burns. His eyes, stripped and dry from crying. His ass, cold from the concrete underneath him, flat and unyielding and doing less to make him feel grounded and more to make him feel literally and figuratively numb.  
  
He can feel the old, aching void that opened inside him every time Castiel was taken away from him, yawning wide to swallow him whole. It makes him want to crawl into the nearest bottle and never resurface. But floating above that feeling like an oil slick is a new sort of pain, sharp and acute and piercing through his heart a thousand times worse than whatever Billie could have doled out to him.

He’d had Death doing her level best to squeeze his heart to dust, and the agony of it was nothing – _nothing_ – compared to how badly his heart hurts now.

_I love you._  
  
_Goodbye, Dean._

He keeps hearing it. He can’t stop hearing Castiel’s voice, full of… _emotion_ in a way it never was before, and every time it floats to the surface of the tumultuous ocean of his thoughts, fresh tears prickle hotly and the air goes out of the room as though it never existed at all. He can’t catch his breath. His heart leaps into his throat and a sob escapes him. And another. He sees Cas’ face, so serene, like he was walking into the embrace of an old friend instead of an ancient cosmic entity that meant him serious harm.  
  
Cas _chose_ that. Of his own free will – free will he wasn’t even ever supposed to _have_ , goddammit – he chose to use his love to give Dean another chance to keep fighting.

And Dean… doesn’t even know what to do with that. He’s spent his whole life knowing in his bones he was unlovable, worthless. He can’t wrap his head around Castiel telling him different.  
  
He’s still reeling. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever stop.  
  
God. Is this what Sam felt like when Eileen got raptured?

Sam.  
  
It’s dead silent in the room, now. Dean can’t manage to take in a whole breath that doesn’t hitch on the way in. He reaches for his phone, anyway, brushing futilely at the tears still streaking down his cheeks, and unlocks it. And then just stares at the screen.  
  
And stares at it some more.  
  
What is he gonna do? What is he gonna _say_? How is he supposed to tell Sam about this? How will he tell _Jack_?  
  
Imagining telling the kid his favorite dad is gone flings Dean right back into a spiral of pain and tears. He crosses his arms around himself, hugging tight, his fingers digging unconsciously into the bloodied fabric of his jacket, holding on to the only thing left of Cas in the room. In the whole world.  
  
Clutching himself tighter, wrapped into a ball of confusion and grief and fury, Dean screams into the empty room.

**~~~**

Dean doesn’t know how much time has passed. He’s barely aware of anything at all besides the wall at his back and the ache of his body, cramped in the same position for too long. He thinks he hears something in the bunker, but the world outside this room is… so far away. He’s floating on an island of misery in an endless ocean. Hopeless.

Heartbroken.  
  
He knows eventually he’s going to have to get off this floor. He knows he still has work to do, and he is running out of time. He can’t afford to sit here forever and mourn.  
  
But oh, how he wants to.  
  
There’s a sudden shuffling of footsteps in the hall outside, and Dean raises his tear-streaked face from his arms as Sam comes skidding into the room, catching himself on the doorframe.  
  
“Dean!” Sam exclaims, striding across the floor in three quick steps and dropping to his knees in front of his brother. He puts his hands on Dean’s shoulders and pushes him back, panic and relief warring in his eyes.  
  
“Oh, my god, Dean, you’re okay. You’re _alive_ , you’re here! _Why didn’t you answer your phone?_ ” Sam is babbling, his hands roaming over Dean as though to reassure himself that Dean is, in fact, sitting right in front of him.  
  
Having his little brother here now, right here, snaps something inside of him, and despite a lifetime of having to pretend to be the only responsible adult in the room, Dean just… can’t do it, right now. He falls forward into Sam, clutching him around the waist and pressing his face into Sam’s neck. Slowly, surprised, Sam circles his arms around Dean’s shoulders and squeezes him tight, and that’s it for Dean. He tries to take in some air, but it drags on its way in, sharp, and his breath hitches into a broken sob. His eyes, burning now, impossibly manage to eke out more tears. He doesn’t even care. He couldn’t stop them even if he wanted to.  
  
“He’s g-gone, Sammy,” he chokes out, the first words he’s spoken aloud in what feels like eons. “He’s gone and I– I couldn’t do anything, I couldn’t–” Dean can’t finish, can’t _think_ , pain and grief sweeping through him anew, clawing at his insides. All he can do is feel it and clutch onto Sam like a fucking lifeline.  
  
“Sam?” Jack’s voice echoes down the hall, footsteps growing louder as he approaches. Everything is starting to come at him from far away again. Dean feels like reality is going to splinter apart at any moment, and he’d fucking welcome it because nothing makes sense anymore, anyway.  
  
“In here!” Sam calls over his shoulder, still holding on to Dean, who cannot get himself under control. He doesn’t _want_ to get himself under control.  
  
Sam turns back to him and pushes Dean away, grabbing his face in his hands. “What happened, Dean? Where’s Cas?”  
  
Over Sam’s shoulder, Dean can see Jack come cautiously into the room, a deep frown on his face. His vision blurs. He’d never noticed before how much Jack looks like Cas when he frowns.  
  
“Castiel is in the Empty,” Jack intones, profoundly sad and solemn. “It took him.” He looks at Dean, looks into his eyes and _through_ him, and his expression morphs into one of compassion. “He told you,” he says softly, and Dean knows Jack isn’t talking about the deal. He nods, sniffling like a fucking _child_. Shit. _Shit_.  
  
Looking back and forth between Jack and Dean, Sam’s frowning now, too, confusion written stark across his face. “Told you what? Dean, how can Cas be in the Empty? It told me it can’t come here unless it’s summoned–?”  
  
Dean sits back against the wall, effectively shrugging Sam off. He tips his head back until he’s looking up blankly at the ceiling. He figures he can tell them what happened as long as he doesn’t have to look.  
  
“Uh,” he starts, and has to drag in another breath that feels like glass going down. “Cas, Cas summoned it.” Dean squeezes his eyes shut, wanting nothing more than to erase the image from his mind of Castiel’s beatific face as he was swallowed whole, devoured by inky nothingness. “He, uh.” God _damn_ , why can’t he _breathe_? “He saved me, Sam,” Dean whispers, more fucking tears spilling over as he suddenly thinks Cas saved him in more ways than one today. “Billie, she– she was comin’ for me, man, and Cas–”  
  
He cuts himself off and tilts his head to face them now, catching Jack’s eye and holding his gaze. He knows. He _knows_ , Dean can _see_ he does. “He was _happy_ ,” he whispers, and curls in on himself again, arms over his head. His whole body hurts. His _heart_ hurts _._ “He _wanted_ to do it,” he mumbles to his knees.  
  
He feels Sam lay a hand on his shoulder, over Castiel’s bloody handprint, and all Dean can think is _wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong, Sam’s too heavy-handed, Cas is the only one who ever touches him_ there _–_

“Dean, I don’t– are you–?”  
  
“He loves me, Sam.”  
  
Sam goes suddenly and completely silent and still as the words tumble out of his mouth unbidden.  
  
Dean looks at his brother and, for once, doesn’t even care that everything he’s feeling is plain on his face. He needs Sam to see this. He needs Sam to see _him_. The person Castiel saw, the person maybe… maybe Dean could actually _be_.  
  
Expression gentle, Sam opens and closes his mouth a few times. A small, sad smile appears and Sam draws his hand back, running his fingers through his hair. “I know he does,” he says finally, quiet. Dean stares, agape. Sam says this like it’s a widely known _fact_. Like it just… is.

Sammy always did see more than Dean gave him credit for.  
  
“Well,” Dean says, gruff, feeling so many things breaking loose inside of him, “I ain’t gonna let him rot in some cosmic prison just because–”  
  
“Everyone is gone,” Jack interjects from behind Sam. He looks away from a spot on the floor and darts his eyes between Sam and Dean, a strange expression on his face, as though he’s surprised himself by speaking, but also that he’s certain of what he’s said. “But if Billie is dead, or – in the Empty? – how did she manage to take all those people?” he asks, frown returning.  
  
Dean closes his eyes, shakes his head. “It wasn’t Billie coming after our people,” he tells them. “It was Chuck. It was Chuck all along.”  
  
Sam’s face hardens. “What?”  
  
“Yeah,” Dean says, voice firming as he gathers up the pieces of himself shattered on the floor and tucks them back inside, slicing and pricking like shards of glass. He pushes himself slowly to his feet and finds his entire left leg has gone numb. “Sonuvabitch never stopped pulling the strings.” With a grunt, Dean stamps his left foot on the floor and feels the jangle of his prickling nerves from ankle to hip. “I don’t know how we’re gonna do it, Sammy, but we gotta take him out.”  
  
Dean looks at his brother, and across the room to Jack. His heart leaps into his throat, but Dean swallows it back down, promising himself he’ll unpack everything later, putting his feelings on hold so he can do what needs to be done. And then –  
  
“And then I’m gonna go get Cas.”

  
**~~~**

  
_Cas. Castiel. I don’t– I don’t know if you can hear me, Cas. I hope you got your ears on. We’re gonna, we gotta take care of Chuck. Okay? I’m gonna figure out how to take him down and then I’m gonna figure out how to get you outta there, man. Just. Just sit tight. I know you’ll probably be fucking pissed, but I’m not leaving you. You don’t get to say ‘I love you’ and then fucking_ die _on me. And, goddammit, Cas, you ’n’ Sammy are the only people in my life I can count on coming back, no matter what. So you can’t stay gone. I won’t fucking let you.  
  
I got somethin’ to say to you Castiel. And I ain’t gonna say it like this. Pack your bags, angel. I’m comin’ to get you._

  
**~~~**

  
Sam and Dean stand across from Jack, and Dean simply cannot keep the smile off his face. He feels so… so fucking _light_ , like every breath he takes is his very first, cool and clean and pure. He glances around and thinks all the colors in the world have never looked so vivid.  
  
“So,” Sam is asking, hesitant, unsure. “Does this mean you’re the new, um… what do we call you?”

Dean lets out a laugh. “Who cares what we call him? Look, all that matters is that he got us back online.” He catches Jack’s small, proud smile and feels proud himself.  
  
“What happened to Amara,” Sam asks now, waving his hands in front of himself, clarifying, “when Chuck…?”

Jack smiles again, bouncing a bit on the balls of his feet. “She’s with me. We’re in … harmony,” he assures them.

“You’re gonna come back with us to the bunker?”  
  
Dean’s had enough; this has been the best and the worst day of the whole of his existence and he wants a fucking _shower_ and a beer and his glorious goddamn mattress. He turns and walks towards the Impala. “Whaddya mean? Of course he’s gonna come back to the bunker,” he admonishes Sam over his shoulder, trusting the other two will follow. “He’s the man with the plan, he’s top dog, he can do whatever he wants, now. C’mon. Y’know, we’ll spruce the place up, we’ll get some recliners, we’ll get you one of those big screen TVs–”  
  
“That won’t be necessary, Dean. But thank you,” Jack says primly. “I don’t intend to stay for long.”  
  
The interruption brings Dean up short and he turns to Jack, eyebrows raised. “No?” he asks, digging Baby’s keys out of his jacket pocket. He’s surprised by the force of his sudden rush of emotion at the thought of Jack leaving them. He’d figured – hell, he’d figured Jack was family, and family got to stay.  
  
“No,” Jack says pleasantly, crossing his hands behind his back and making his way over to the backseat passenger-side door. He looks at Dean serenely over the roof of the car. “I have… much to resolve,” he adds, glancing at Sam as the moose catches up to them and grabs for the handle of the front door. “But I’ll stay at least until you get Cas back. Maybe a bit longer.”  
  
“I’m sorry,” Sam says, brow wrinkled in confusion. “‘Until we get Cas back?’ Can’t you just… reach into the Empty and grab him?”  
  
Dean throws a grateful look Sam’s way before bringing his gaze expectantly to Jack. Who is shaking his head, sad. “Unfortunately, no, Sam,” he says, and Dean can hear the pain in his voice. “Whatever rules govern the relationship between me and the Empty now, the only way it’s okay for me to stay here is if I don’t get involved.”  
  
Reality crashes in on Dean like a tidal wave, his hopes, foolishly raised, dashed to bits against this answer. He frowns at Jack across the car. “It sounds to me like you’re saying we gotta pick between you stickin’ around or us saving Cas,” he says, incredulous, “’cause I don’t see how we’re gonna get him back without some divine assistance, and no offense, kid, but–”  
  
“Jesus Christ, Dean, you can’t _say_ stuff like that to him, now–”

“Can it, Sammy,” Dean snaps, and looks back at Jack, fighting to keep the panic from crawling into his throat. “You can’t– you can’t help with this _one thing_?” he pleads. His heart is ricocheting around inside him, but he squashes it back into place behind his ribs where it fucking _belongs_.  
  
Jack shakes his head again. “I can’t, Dean. I’m sorry,” he says, solemn. His honey-colored eyes bore into Dean’s when they make eye contact, and Dean gets a glimpse of who – _what_ – Jack is now, all crammed inside the body of a young man.  
  
“Besides,” Jack goes on, opening the car door and getting ready to climb in, “technically, I have no control over the Empty – Castiel sacrificed his own life to keep me from it, and I don’t know what will happen if I’m the one to nullify the deal.” He gives Dean a look before ducking into the Impala and shutting the door firmly.  
  
For a minute, Dean stands, stunned into silence by this idea. But then it begins to make sense to him. It’s… pretty much his fault Castiel is trapped in the Empty. Yeah, Cas made the deal, but Dean is the one who gave him a reason to be happy. Just by _existing_. By being… himself. And Dean… Dean does not know what to do with devotion like this, other than try to find a way to bust Castiel out of there and make things right between them. Cas was right – he saw himself as a ruthless monster, no better than the creatures they hunted, and certainly not worthy of being loved the way Castiel clearly loved him. He never deserved Castiel’s devotion, but maybe, _maybe_ Dean could be worthy of it. If he gets another chance. If Castiel hadn’t sacrificed himself, everything that he was, so Dean could go on living –  
  
He rages inwardly. What kind of bullshit ending would it be for Castiel to be merely a sacrifice? Throwing away a chance for them to be happy _together_ , so Dean can live out the rest of his days alone and aching, forever missing a piece of himself? No. Fucking. Thank you.  
  
Dean looks over at Sam, expecting to see one of his bitchfaces. Instead, he’s met with a look of understanding. Something inside of Dean squirms and he wants to look away from his brother’s face, uncomfortable. But, he thinks it’s probably good for him to let Sam see… _this_. This thing Dean has kept shoved so far inside him and for so long he’s almost forgotten the shape of it. Has he been an idiot? For certain. But now that he is free, truly _free_ to choose… whatever the hell he _wants_ … he knows exactly what his first choice needs to be.  
  
He swallows and looks Sam square in the eye. “I love him, too, Sammy,” he tells his brother, sure and composed, and look at that, it wasn’t so fucking hard to say it, after all.  
  
Sam continues to give him the sympathetic look for about another two seconds before rolling his eyes and wrenching the car door open. “No shit, Dean,” he says, ducking into the front seat. “I’ve lived with the two of you for _years_ and _I have eyes_.”  
  
“What the fuck–?!” Dean splutters, getting into the car and slamming the door shut.  
  
Sam grins as he buckles in. “I swear to God – uh, Jack, um, sorry? (“Oh, no worries, Sam!” Jack pipes from the backseat) – I swear, Dean. You and Cas are oblivious morons, and the rest of us have been sitting around watching the two of you dance around this for _ever_. It’s about fucking time.”  
  
Dean stares at Sam for another minute before shaking his head and starting the car. “What the _fuck_ ,” he mutters to himself as he pulls them away from the curb and points his Baby towards home.  
  


**~~~**

  
Dean fingers the chunk of amber hanging from a leather cord around his neck. The rich golden color of it warms in the candlelight, capturing the flames and sending them winking into the corners of the room. He looks over at Sam and Jack, chewing worriedly on his lower lip.  
  
“You sure this is gonna work, Sammy?” he asks, hoping his brother doesn’t notice the tremor in his voice. Insane. They’d just taken the worst beating of their lives, defeated _God,_ for chrissake, but Dean couldn’t shake the gnawing fear in his stomach that somehow this was all gonna go sideways, and fast.  
  
Sam gave him a wry look. “As sure as I ever am about anything,” he answers, grinding a pestle into their old stone mortar like it had harmed him personally. His hair falls in his face as he works, obscuring his expression, but Dean can hear the tightness in his brother’s voice. Good to know they’re both freaking out, then.  
  
Only Jack is calm.  
  
But then, of course Jack is calm.  
  
He stands off behind Sam, watching them with a neutral golden gaze. Dean… can’t even begin to _try_ to imagine what’s going on in the kid’s head. Can he even call him a kid anymore? He guesses not – however much he and Cas and Sam had had a hand in raising Jack, he’s more, now. Bigger and honed, somehow. Ineffable. Complete.  
  
And maybe Dean will never be able to understand him again, but he feels a tiny blossom of pride in his chest, knowing he helped make Jack who he is. Whatever else he may be, Jack is _good_.

Dean thinks he can live with that legacy.  
  
“Sure you can’t lend us a hand?” Dean pleads one last time. He shakes his hands out, nervous energy needing an outlet as Sam continues to prepare the spell they found to open a gateway into the Empty.  
  
Jack smiles and shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Dean,” he says simply. “If I’m going to stay, I have to remain… impartial.”  
  
“Right,” Dean mutters, examining the amber again. It rests against his chest, lighter than anything, but he can feel the lead weight of it pressing against his bones.  
  
A heavy silence falls over them, standing in the room in the bunker where Castiel had so happily left, sacrificing himself so they could go on to save the world. Part of Dean wants to honor that sacrifice. He understands it. He knows in his heart, if their positions had been reversed, he would have done it just as willingly.  
  
But the rest of him.  
  
The rest of him… refuses to let Castiel go.

Sam lays the pestle down on the table with a jarring _thunk_. Dean shakes himself again, hands clenching and unclenching, sweaty and shaking. He tells himself this is only another day in the life, just another monster for him to tackle, but getting Cas back is too important, and he struggles for calm. He feels like he’s coming out of his skin, stomach pinched and painful, guts churning. He can’t remember the last time he was this terrified.  
  
“You ready?” Sam says into the silent room.  
  
Dean looks at his brother and as much as he wants to reassure, he fails to find a smile for him. “Nope,” he says, shaking his head at himself. “But I don’t got a choice, so. Let’s get this show on the road.”  
  
Sam nods, solemn, and hands Dean a small crystal vial, which Dean stuffs carefully into the breast pocket of his jacket. Sam gives him an angel blade next, hilt first, and Dean tucks it away in his sleeve. Finally, Dean watches as Sam hesitates before producing a small, fluffy black feather. He puts it square in Dean’s palm, then closes his fingers over it gently. Dean doesn’t even have to ask; he knows, even though he’s never seen them, this is one of Castiel’s feathers. He wonders how Sam got his hands on it, looking to his brother for any sort of clue.  
  
“Rowena, uh,” Sam coughs, “Rowena had a few. From, uh, before. With the Mark?”  
  
Dean stares at Sam and violently throttles the irrational surge of jealousy threatening to rise like bile at the thought of _how_ Rowena might have gone about obtaining Castiel’s feathers.  
  
“Anyway, this will hopefully make it easier to find him,” Sam murmurs. Both brothers look over at Jack, who smiles at them again and merely nods. It’s not an answer, but it somehow makes Dean feel slightly less like this is the worst idea they’ve had in a while.  
  
“Here goes,” Sam says, and begins chanting the words to the spell they had frantically uncovered a few days ago. Dean closes his eyes and gives himself a shake, making a last-ditch effort for calm. _C’mon, Dean,_ he chastises himself, _you know how to put this shit aside and get the job done. So get the job done._  
  
An electric hum starts vibrating through the air, thickening the space between the three of them and pressing against Dean’s skin like it wants to crush him. The wall between the earth and the Empty stretches, wavers, pulling against Dean now and he feels the hair on the back of his neck stand on end when suddenly something _snaps_ and there, in the air before him, is a stygian black line, a sort of nothingness that bends the eye away from it but draws all of Dean’s attention nonetheless.  
  
A final nod, a last, desperate glance at Sam, and Dean stalks into the Empty, Castiel’s feather clutched tightly in his hand.

  
**~~~**

  
Dean expects the Empty to be. Well. _Empty_.  
  
It is dark and frigid and endless as far as he can see, but as he comes through the gateway with a sickening lurch, like freeing himself from a vacuum, the sound that assaults his ears drives him to his knees.  
  
It’s a noise wholly unfamiliar and at the same time, _known_ ; he hears the high-pitched screeching whine of angel radio and the horrifying screams and growls of demons great and small, blending together in an echoing cacophony, reverberating inside him to his core. He puts his hands over his ears and squeezes his eyes shut, grits his teeth against the agony of sound in this place. Shit. How is he going to find Cas if he can’t even fucking stand up?  
  
So. Stand he must. Dean opens his eyes and bites back a groan of pain as he pushes himself upright, hands still clapped firmly over his ears, fat lot of good it’s doing him. He turns in a slow circle, unable to see _anything_ in the vast nothingness, his mind straining to grasp the absolute lack of anything here. He staggers a step forward and stops, remembering his amber, remembering the feather.  
  
It’s a risk and he’s pretty sure it’s either going to make him go deaf or insane, but Dean pulls his hands away from his ears and grips the amber pendant in one hand, feather in the other. He does his best to block out the waves of sound around him and turns his focus inward, picturing Castiel’s face.  
  
“Cas,” he says aloud, or at least he’s pretty sure he’s spoken aloud, “I’m here, I’m comin’ for you, I gotta, I can’t– shit. Help me find you, man.”  
  
Nothing happens. The roaring in his ears doesn’t diminish. No one bubbles out of the expanse in front of him.  
  
Dean closes his eyes, opens his heart, and lets himself feel.  
  
Beyond the physical agony assaulting his every molecule, beyond feeling like his body is turning to ice in this void, Dean feels a seed of warmth in his heart and he focuses on it with a single-mindedness that everyone who knows him would refer to as “stubborn.” He lets the warmth grow and blossom inside him, a seed that had been planted ages ago but he had refused, for what now seem like unimportant reasons, to water. He feels it climb through him, up his throat, out into his fingertips and toes, driving back the chill of the void and consuming him in a cozy heat like a blanket, like a barrier.  
  
In his hand, Castiel’s feather bursts into blue flame.  
  
Dean opens his eyes and yells at the top of his lungs, adding to the cacophony: “ _Castiel!_ ”  
  
The blue flame in his hand flickers in an absent wind, snapping and crackling in a decided direction. Using it like a compass, Dean follows it, walking at first and then running through the Empty, hope rising in him like hot air.  
  
Ahead of him, faint but somehow right in his ear, he hears Cas’ voice, muffled and unintelligible.  
  
“Cas!” he calls again, following the rapidly dwindling flame of Castiel’s feather. There’s no sense of direction here, no landmarks, no way of orienting himself if the flame fails. He pushes himself to run, faster than he’s ever run in his life. Everything hurts. A warm trickle leaks from his left ear; blood, probably. It isn’t the first time he’s bled from the ears.  
  
And all the while, he feels the tug of the gateway on him.  
  
That was the catch. Always, with the catches. He doesn’t have an infinite amount of time to search. Human souls weren’t ever meant for the Empty; in addition to the constant throbbing pressure and pain of the sounds here, every step Dean’s taken away from the gateway has felt like adding rocks to his pockets before taking a walk into a lake. The gateway drags on him, wanting to snatch him back, and he grits his teeth so hard against the sensations washing through and over him he’s afraid he’s gonna crack a tooth.  
  
Suddenly, the feather in Dean’s hand flames bright, creating a thin column of light shooting straight up and down, stretching forever in either direction. He jumps back, dropping it, and watches as the column dims and brightens with the rhythm of a heartbeat. He doesn’t see Castiel anywhere, but clearly the feather has completed its purpose. Dean looks at the blackness under his feet. He kneels, letting his fingers skate across what feels like ice, smooth and slippery and freezing. He thinks he can see… something beneath the surface.  
  
“Cas?” he wonders, and, without thinking, lets the angel blade fall from inside his sleeve. He grips the hilt, frowns, and flips it so he’s grasping it by the blade. Raising his arm high over his head, face awash in the pulsing blue-white string of light in front of him, Dean brings the hilt of the blade down on the icy floor like a hammer.  
  
The sharp shivering slice through his palm is nothing compared to the piercing shriek that sunders the air around him. He’s thrown bodily back to skid across the glassy slick surface of the ground here. There’s motion, now, in the nothingness – a seething, bubbling mass of more nothingness to add to the madness in this place. The air presses in on Dean and he struggles to take even the shallowest breath.  
  
But.  
  
He looks over at the column of light, now sparking out into darkness, and sees Castiel lying in a crumpled heap at its base.

“Cas,” he croaks, pushing himself to his hands and knees and gulping in air. “Cas!” Louder this time. Castiel doesn’t so much as quiver.  
  
Dean shakes his head a few times, willing himself to concentrate. He gets to his feet and staggers, body protesting, to Castiel’s side, where he drops to his knees again and grabs at Cas’ shoulder, rolling him from his side onto his back.  
  
Eyes closed, Cas looks like he’s asleep, but rather than the rapturous expression he’d worn when Dean had seen him last, his typical exhaustion crowds around his eyes, draws the corners of his mouth into the more familiar frown. Dean shakes him, but Castiel only rolls bonelessly with the momentum from Dean’s hand. Feeling sick, shaken, Dean gathers Cas into his arms and holds on to him, face buried in Cas’ dark hair. Absurdly he realizes he’s always liked the way Cas’ hair smells.  
  
Sniffling, Dean shifts and lays Castiel out flat on the ground. He wipes his arm across his nose and then reaches into his pocket for the crystal vial. His bleeding palm makes it hard for him to get a good grip on anything but he manages not to fumble the vial. Carefully, he leans over and reaches for the angel blade, retrieving it from where he’d dropped it when he was flung backwards.  
  
Dean tips Castiel’s head back and exposes his neck. The noise and the sliding, insidious movements in his periphery are starting to become unbearable. His hands are fucking _shaking_. How is he supposed to do this without killing Cas in the process if he can’t keep his hands from fucking shaking?  
  
Struggling to will his hands to stillness, Dean grasps the vial in one hand and carefully presses the tip of the angel blade against the base of Castiel’s throat with the other. He takes in a long, slow breath and draws a short, shallow line across Castiel’s skin. The flesh parts and he bleeds blue, Grace swirling out into the space between them, aimless, eager to dissipate. Dean uncorks his vial and holds it out, doing what he can to coax Castiel’s Grace into it. It feels like it takes forever, and all the while Dean aches and aches and Castiel remains still and silent.  
  
When the last bits of Castiel’s Grace have eddied into the vial, Dean shoves the stopper in and wraps it in an old bandana he’s got in his jacket pocket before tucking it carefully away. He squeezes his eyes shut, counts to ten, and then digs his arms under Cas’ armpits and propels himself to his feet. He takes three steps back, dragging Cas’ dead weight, before he trips and crashes down in a heap of tangled limbs.

The murky, slithering shapes around them coalesce in front of Dean at Castiel’s feet, becoming vaguely human-shaped before oozing apart, then coiling back together. A head-shape appears where a head _should_ be on a person, and Dean watches, horrified, as different and familiar faces flicker across the black goo, all faces he’d happily never have to look at ever again – Azazel, Crowley, Abaddon, Cain, Ruby, Lucifer, Alastair. The Empty can’t decide which one to use, continuously cycling through all of them, eyes shifting from black to yellow to red, mouth shaped into a murderous frown.  
  
Dean grips Castiel tightly and stares at the lurking dark figure before them.  
  
“No,” the Empty says, and somehow Dean can hear it clear as day above the background of dissonant sound, like it’s speaking directly into his ear. “You cannot have him. He made the Deal. He knew its consequences.”  
  
“Yeah, well,” Dean gripes, opening himself to the tugging he can still feel, sure and strong, from the gateway. “He obviously didn’t count on me fuckin’ it up for him,” he says ruefully. He glares at the entity before him and spits out, “But you can’t have him, you son of a bitch. He’s human now, and we don’t belong to you.”  
  
Dean reaches for the chunk of amber dangling from his neck, wraps a hand around it, and _yanks_.  
  
The leather cord snaps off in his hand, and with a final burst of strength, he flings it as far as he can into the nothingness surrounding them, then grabs onto Cas and holds on for dear life.

At first nothing happens, and Dean’s mind blanks out in sudden panic. Terror crawls up his spine and grips his throat, choking him. The amber acts as an anchor, a sort of gravity boot working against the pull of the gateway – without it, they should be sucked right back home. If this doesn’t work, then he’s trapped them here forever; there’s no way he has the strength to make it back to the gateway on his own, never mind dragging Cas behind him and trailing one Very Pissed Off Cosmic Entity.  
  
But then like a lightning strike, he feels a tug behind his ribs, and suddenly he’s being yanked backwards through the Empty like a fish on the line. Dean crushes Castiel to him and closes his eyes, wishes he could block out the sound around them, too, and can only pray that if nothing else, seeing them come home safely is something Jack doesn’t consider “interfering.”  
  
His back slams against something solid, or at least something that feels solid for the split second it takes to cause him more bodily harm before it melts around him, swallowing him and Castiel and then churning them out the other side, into the brick-walled room of the bunker, lit only by guttering candles and the red safety lights.  
  
“Dean!” Sam shouts, and it sounds like Dean’s hearing him through mounds of cotton balls stuffed in his ears. Sam leaps towards Dean as he collapses back onto the floor, Castiel sprawled out on top of him in an unsightly jumble of limbs. In the air, the inky black gateway flickers and vanishes. Dean drops his head to the concrete floor with a heavy _thud_.  
  
“Dean, you did it. You did it!” Sam is exclaiming, shaking him on the shoulder, heedless of Dean’s injuries. He swivels his head around, eying Sammy upside-down, and then Jack, hovering uncertainly outside their little bubble, somehow _still_ looking like he doesn’t know where he stands with the Winchesters. Dean waves him over, and he comes, kneeling beside Cas’ prone form and laying a hand over his chest.  
  
“I did, Sammy, I got him back,” Dean mutters, disbelieving. A dopey smile crosses his face. “Glad the family’s all together now. Gonna– gonna tell him jus’ as soon’s I get a nap,” he adds, and before anyone knows what’s happening, Dean slides away into unconsciousness.

**  
** **~~~**

  
A mechanical tick-tick-ticking sound drifts into Dean’s ears as awareness slowly returns to him. He grunts softly and opens his eyes. He’s in his room. The second hand on the clock continues on its incessant march.  
  
He glances around at the familiar space, his home, now, for the last seven years. He’d always thought it felt that way because of Sam, but he knows better, now.  
  
He’s alone in his bedroom but the bedside lamp is switched on and a chair is resting beside the bed, a book placed open, spine up, on the seat. He can’t see the title from where he’s laying, but Dean’s too tired and definitely not curious enough to push himself up for a better look.  
  
He startles when the door to his room swings open and Sam walks in with a steaming mug of coffee in hand. “Sammy,” he says, and he’s surprised to hear himself sounding… okay, actually. His brother looks at him and smiles wide, coming into the room and placing the coffee mug on the nightstand before scooping the book into his hands and sitting on the chair.  
  
“You’re awake, good,” Sam says, and Dean can see the genuine relief in Sam’s eyes. “Good. Uh. You, uh, you feeling okay?” he asks, suddenly going all shifty-eyed.  
  
“Never better,” Dean says, narrowing his eyes. “Spit it out, Sam.”  
  
Sam tosses Dean an annoyed look before he coughs and stands, fiddling with the ragged, worn edges of his paperback and staring at his hands with deep concentration.  
  
“Cas, is, uh. Cas is awake, too.” He glances at Dean briefly before flicking his eyes back to his book. “He’s in the greenhouse.”  
  
Dean blinks. “We have a greenhouse?” is all he can think to blurt out.  
  
Sam huffs a laugh. “Uh, yeah, Dean. End of the hall, stairs go down into the showers and up into the greenhouse?”  
  
Picturing the staircase in his mind, wondering how it’s possible for him to have never gone up there, Dean shakes his head and snarks, “Whatever. Can I get a glass of water, bitch?”  
  
Sam laughs again and heads for the door. “Sure, Dean. Whatever you need.” He disappears into the hallway, leaving Dean alone with his thoughts in an otherwise empty room.  
  
Deciding he doesn’t want to wait, actually, thank you very much, Dean throws the covers off and swings his legs over the side of the bed. He doesn’t bother with slippers or even his bathrobe, just marches out of his room on wobbly legs to the end of the hall, looking up the ascending staircase, genuinely puzzled how he’s somehow… never seen it before.  
  
Regardless. He still had a job to do. His stubborn streak rearing its head, Dean puts a foot on the bottom riser and starts his climb.

  
**~~~**

  
The greenhouse, it turns out, is absolutely breathtaking.  
  
Enormous glass windows are braced between delicate, sweeping arches, trim painted white and flaking in places, revealing the brown of rust underneath. Pots of all shapes, colors, and sizes stand around the room, spilling a profusion of greenery and flowers gone wild over tables, in hanging baskets, over the metal spiral staircase rising in a graceful twist to a semi-circular balcony in the center of the room. Light pours in through the high windows, soaking into Dean’s skin and drawing a smile from somewhere deep inside him. No wonder Castiel was drawn to this place. It is the polar opposite of the place he had been. The place he undoubtedly thought Dean was going to leave him to rot.  
  
Glancing around, Dean spots Castiel on the other side of the greenhouse, his arms crossed over his stomach and his back mostly turned to the room full of plant life. Dean sees Cas’ profile, the way he’s worrying at his lower lip and staring out into the Kansas countryside like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. Dean knows the feeling – he can’t remember the last time he saw Cas dressed in anything other than his signature holy tax accountant getup – the sight of Castiel in plaid flannel pajama pants and one of Dean’s ratty old _AC/DC_ shirts is insane enough, but the glowing blue bottle of Grace dangling from Castiel’s neck sends a jolt of panic through Dean like nothing else.  
  
Dean takes a moment to calm himself. Cas is here and he’s human and the Empty _can’t fucking have him._ The thought reassuring him, Dean steps into the greenhouse. It feels like he’s crossing an invisible line they had both always agreed would remain between them. At least, he’d assumed they had both agreed.  
  
But since Cas already took the step, it makes it a lot easier for Dean to take it, too.  
  
“Heya, Cas,” he says quietly. Castiel hears him, though. Dean can see the way his shoulders tense slightly from all the way over here. He hurries to close the gap between them, stopping short of being able to reach out and pull Castiel into a hug.

Cas turns to him and tips his head back, raising his chin. “I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but, hello, Dean.” He offers a small smile, but can’t manage to meet Dean’s eyes. If Dean knew any better, he’d say Castiel looked. Well. _Shy_.

Dean can feel a heavy silence brewing and pushes through it. He’s been silent long enough. “I wanna talk to you, Cas,” he says, and he’s proud of himself for keeping his voice so steady. Castiel raises an eyebrow at him, but doesn’t say anything. Which, okay, fair.  
  
“Uh. I mean,” Dean coughs and rubs a hand across the back of his neck. He realizes he could have prepared a _little_ bit more than he had – which is to say, not at all – but he thinks it’s probably forgivable in this instance since he was Extremely Busy off saving the world and all. But he also realizes Castiel deserves to hear the truth, so however much it feels like he’s cracking his own ribcage open and baring his insides, Dean fortifies himself and ducks his head to catch Cas’ eye.

“Hey,” he says, quiet, and takes a small step further into Cas’ space. “Look at me, Cas,” he commands gently, and relief floods through him, warm and soothing, when Castiel raises his eyes to Dean’s.  
  
“Okay, okay. I know, uh. I know I’m not perfect,” he begins haltingly, “and I know I’ve been– well, I’ve been an asshole about a bunch of things.” He lets out a small self-deprecating laugh. “And I bet you’re super pissed that I– uh, that I ruined your sacrifice and all–”  
  
“Dean–” Castiel interrupts, but Dean shakes his head, cutting him off.  
  
“Cas, no offense, but shut up and let me do this, okay?” He smiles to take the sting out of it, but he’s suddenly combating a swarm of butterflies in his stomach like he’s some fresh-faced adolescent with his first crush. He can’t ignore them, so he focuses on Castiel’s eyes, earnest and patient and so, so blue.  
  
“I was surprised, okay? You caught me off guard and I – I dunno, man, I really thought we were gonna die. But I thought we were gonna go _together_. And a part of me– part of me was okay with that. Because you bein’ gone again? No.” He shakes his head firmly, pushing back against the wave of sorrow that crashes to the surface. “I couldn’t wrap my head around it, man. I couldn’t go through it again.  
  
“And then you went and– and goddammit, what’s _wrong_ with you, Cas?” Dean suddenly blurts, remembering another deathbed confession, a lifetime ago now. “You don’t– you don’t get to tell me you love me _right before you leave_.”  
  
“I thought it was the right thing to do, Dean,” Castiel interrupts, a rueful smile tugging at his mouth. “But I see yet again I’ve misjudged when it comes to you.”  
  
Dean closes the last of the distance between them, tentatively reaching out to cup his hands around Castiel’s elbows. When Cas doesn’t pull away, Dean slides his hands up Cas’ arms and rests them on his neck, thumbs under his jaw and tilting his head back ever so slightly.  
  
“No, Cas,” Dean says, “I’m glad you told me. Just wish you’da stuck around long enough to let me answer you.” Castiel’s lips part and his eyes widen in surprise, and Dean wants to fucking _kick himself_ because Castiel has truly given _everything_ for Dean, time and time again, and Dean had been too afraid to let himself see what that _meant._  
  
He’s done being afraid, though. He’s so, so done with it.  
  
Cupping Castiel’s face in his hands, Dean presses his forehead to Cas’ and drinks in his blue eyes from mere inches away. He closes his eyes for a minute and gives himself permission to feel what he knows is right as it settles over his body, over his heart like a shimmering latticework of light. What he’s known, really, since the moment he climbed out of his own grave all those years ago, and what has been reinforced every time he’s had to suffer through losing Castiel.  
  
He pulls back to look Castiel in the face. “I love you, too, Cas,” he murmurs, and if he’d felt free and light in the wake of Chuck’s defeat, well. Right now he thinks if he wasn’t holding on to Cas he’d legitimately float away.  
  
“I love you so much,” he goes on, brushing his thumb over Castiel’s trembling lower lip, words coming to him easy as breathing. “And nothing would make me happier than spending the rest of my life showing you how much.”

For a moment, the words hang between them, raw and maybe _too_ honest, before Cas breaks the spell with a disbelieving laugh and throws his arms around Dean, pulling him into a crushing embrace. Cas’ hands grip the back of Dean’s shirt like he’s never gonna let him go, and Dean is one hundred-percent on board with that. He turns his face into Cas’ neck and noses behind his ear, inhaling and reveling in the solid warmth of him, real and here and alive and loving.  
  
They stand in the greenhouse, grateful to be holding on to each other, bright silence around them filled with potential. Castiel – with his cracked chassis, with his dedication to making choices freely – has given Dean this gift. They are together and they are free, to do with their lives as they please, starting right this moment.  
  
And it pleases Dean to kiss Castiel, so that is what he does.  
  
It’s the first of many, the first of a lifetime of kisses, but as Dean threads his fingers into Castiel’s hair, reveling in the newness of discovery, it feels like they’ve already done this a thousand times before, in a thousand lifetimes, on a thousand worlds. It feels like his heart is home.

**~~~**

“Pass me the bacon, would’ya, Sammy?” Dean says, clambering into his seat at the table next to Cas with a kiss dropped casually on his cheek. Cas rolls his eyes good-naturedly and turns his attention back to his burger, held in two hands and rapidly disappearing before Dean’s eyes, as though it is the last burger in existence and Castiel will fight anyone who comes for it.  
  
Sam also rolls his eyes, but at the request or their antics it’s hard to say. He grabs the plate with all the fixin’s on it (not just bacon, jeez, Dean’s not an _animal_ ) and passes it over, shaking his head as Dean piles bacon and onions on his own burger, heedless, as usual, of his health.  
  
“Have you heard from Jack?” Cas asks during one of his infrequent pauses from devouring his dinner. He reaches for his beer and takes a long swig, looking at Sam expectantly.  
  
Hair swishing in his eyes as he shakes his head, Sam takes the plate of fixings back and dresses his own black bean burger (ugh, Sam’s lucky Dean loves him so much and actually cooks these things for his brother, because _gross_ ). “Not lately. He said he had some things to ‘resolve,’ and who can even say what those things might be?” Sam sighs and takes a drink of his own beer. “But he said he’d drop in again soon, so.” Sam lifts his shoulder in a shrug, aiming for nonchalance, but he’s not fooling anybody. Dean knows he’s still anxious about Jack being gone. They all are. They’d assumed Jack would want to stay with them and things would go back to – well, to what passed for normal for the Winchesters, anyway – but it appears as though Jack has other plans. Which is honestly fine with Dean, as long as the kid comes by now and again to say hello.  
  
It’s what family does, after all.  
  
Sam clearing his throat is loud in the sudden silence that falls over the kitchen, and he shifts on his chair before poking at his side-salad with a fork, eyes on the table. “You, uh, you think about what we’re gonna do about your Grace, Cas?” he asks, too casual. It’s been… not a sore subject, but not something any of them have been comfortable openly discussing.  
  
Dean thinks, the hell with comfortable. Comfortable makes things real fucking messy.  
  
He turns to Cas, too, raising his eyebrows and chewing at him expectantly. When Castiel raises his eyes to Dean, he’s surprised to see a shyness there again, something he’d never expected of Cas but now finds utterly endearing. He can’t get enough of it.  
  
“Actually,” Cas starts, hesitant, “I was thinking… I’ve always wanted to try my hand at – at gardening.” He looks over at Sam, then at his now-empty plate, and finally at Dean. The vial of his Grace hangs around his neck, innocuous, as much a part of him as always but contained, now, no longer a threat to his happiness. He offers Dean a small smile. “The greenhouse needs some work,” he goes on. He wraps his fingers around the vial, dimming its glow, and adds, “And an angel’s Grace is, at its essence, pure creation.” Worrying at his lower lip, he looks at the vial in his hand and finishes the thought. “I thought I’d use it to, uh, enrich the plant-life in our home?”  
  
He sounds so unsure, so nervous to make this confession, Dean has to hold back a delighted laugh. Man needs to have Death literally pounding on the door to say the things that are close to his heart with confidence (and no, Dean will not be looking too closely at _that_ particular thought, he knows it’s the pot calling the kettle black). Dean throws an arm around Castiel’s shoulders and plants an exaggerated, sloppy-wet kiss on his cheek (“Gross, Dean, c’mon, we’re _eating_!”).  
  
“Sounds perfect, angel,” Dean murmurs in Cas’ ear. “Sammy’ll probably throw a bitch-fit, but maybe we can get a beehive to go up in there, too.”  
  
“Hey! I can hear you!” Sam squawks indignantly.  
  
Castiel turns a radiant smile on Dean and the blooming, trickling warmth of affection spreads through his chest like warm honey. “I’d love that, Dean. Thank you,” Cas says, leaning into Dean’s side. He slides his hand under the table and takes Dean’s fingers in his, twisting them together away from Sam’s good-naturedly violated gaze.  
  
Smiling himself, Dean lets the simple joy of making the person he loves happy wash over him. He squeezes Castiel’s fingers under the table and then pulls his hand away, turning his attention back to his own dinner.  
  
“Sure thing, sweetheart,” he adds. He hears Sam spluttering across the table and in true big-brother fashion, gives zero fucks about giving Sam second-hand embarrassment. “If it makes you happy, it makes me happy, too.”

And goddamn, his heart is fit to burst, knowing the truth of it in the depths of his soul.

**End.**

**Author's Note:**

> Come scream with me about spn on [tumblr](https://aishitara.tumblr.com/)! My blog has been sorely neglected, but it's basically a constant stream of deancas nonsense and will continue to be mostly a constant stream of deancas nonsense. ^.^;;;


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